


He has a playlist for these sorts of things

by RyMagnatar



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AR is a car in this universe, M/M, humans with troll like quadrants, naruto references, sans-game, trolls and humans on one planet, trolls with human like families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyMagnatar/pseuds/RyMagnatar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Eridan throws a party, not one, but two Striders show up. Cronus thinks that's just fine. One for Eridan. One for him. </p><p>He sets his sights on Dirk's choice ass and succeeds in attaining it in the backseat of Dirk's car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He has a playlist for these sorts of things

The Striders only go to the best parties. This is not just fact but law. In town, if you wanted to have a good party you rated it with how many Striders showed up. There were three of them possible; the poncy little upstart kid with the camera and the sick playlist he keeps on his ipod, then there was the middle one, anime shades and the cool-cat-I-don’t-give-a-fuck robo-fucker who got more than a little attention from either sex and of course the last one, Bro.

That bastard was legendary, could drop a beat faster and sicker than anyone, even his little wards. He was busy all the motherfucking time, or so the rumor went. But whether he was busy with an online website or directing movies you didn’t know or really bother to care. You’ve only seen him once or twice, this tall blond with broad shoulders and shades that are identical to either one or the other of his little asshole pups. Either he switched them out or the gossip that he had a robotic clone was true.

Tonight, this party is a two Strider party. You saw the younger one show up with the beginning crowd and once word was out that he was here, your house became swamped with people.

That’s right. _Your_ house.

Sure it’s not exactly _your_ party, but it’s in your house and under your supervision or whatever the hell your dad justifies it with when he absconds out and leaves you and your little shit of a brother home alone on the weekends. This weekend Eridan has decided to throw a shindig the likes of which you haven’t seen in your own house since that costume New Years bash your dad insisted on having two years ago. There was still a stain on the rug from that.

Anyway, back to the two Striders. The first one showed up, paying no attention to you at all. In fact he’s got his little grabby hands all over your brother’s ass. You saw more than one purple flush fill your brother’s fins when Strider the youngest got too close.

Strider the middle was the other one that showed up. When the party’s two hours in with a second wave of booze being brought in by some blond babe with a pretty pink gaze, he comes stepping in through the front door.

You only catch sight of him because you’re up on the stair landing, one elbow on the railing and the other with a beer in the other hand. He’s got those glasses on, pointed and stupid, with that stylized hair that reminds you of those days you saw Damara and Rufioh on their way out to those ‘Con’ things they got hopped up on. The handsome, smug little asshole looks around like this place couldn’t possibly be worth his time. You lick your lips and set your sights high. That Strider ass was yours.

Taking a swig of that beer, you move on down the stairs, past some stupid huddling, whispering couple of girls, and shove your way into the crowd. Bastard must have radar for those interested in him though, because he lingers by the door and looks up at you as you approach. “Hey babe,” you say, leaning a hand on the wall beside him. He looks at your arm and then up at you. His eyes are orange over the black of his shades.

“Hey dollface,” he replies.

Your fist tightens around your bottle but you keep your grin broad, “You must be thirsty, can I get you a drink?”

He holds up his hand, on the back of it are two D’s. “Designated driver, toots, I don’t want to get stuck in this little shithole.”

Your eyebrow twitches. “What a fuckin’ pity there, sugar. It’s easier to deal with everyone’s shit when you’ve got a little buzz going.” You lift the bottle to your lips pointedly and take a drink.

“Oh honey, you have got to find better coping skills than to ruin your liver.” He shook his head with a gentle tsk’ing noise. But he wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t duck under your arm or try to push past you.

“Sweetie, I’m sure my liver can handle it.” You lean in. “Though I think you could check it out if you wanted to.”

His eyebrows rose. You feel a glancing of fingertips across your side but his hand moves too quickly for you to really be sure of him. “Sorry darling, I’m not really into cutting people open. It sounds a little black for me.”

“You don’t think you can stand a little rough handling?” You give him a wink. “Well that’s just a shame, I think you’d look good with a little blood on your lip, Angel.”

He lifts his chin, “And what color would it be, Buttercup? Purple or red?” You step closer. He puts up a hand on your chest to hold you off. “Now, now, you’ve got a little more alcohol on your breath than I’d really like to get on mine.”

“Baby, baby, baby,” You press back against his hand. “A sweet little thing like you has no taste for alcohol and no stomach for blood? Then what are you doing in a place like this.”

“Well for all the blood and alcohol you say is around here, lambchop, I’m seeing a lot more of the slobbery make outs and underaged drinkers.” He gestures around with one hand and then turns his reflective gaze back to you. “Unless there’s something else lurking in this sorry excuse for a party. I wouldn’t know that for sure though, since I’ve been accosted right here inside the fucking door.”

Now he does step away, steps back and half around. You twist so you can keep facing him. “Don’t be like that, puddin’, not when we were just getting along with each other.”

“Butter bear,” he gives you a quick pat on the cheek. You try to grab his hand after but he pulls it away, “I’ve actually come to see my little bro, so I’d love to stay and chat but someone has to pull their weight in this relationship.”

“Oh pumpkin biscuit, you wound me greatly!” You reach down and grab ahold of his wrist, finally.

He twists his arm, “Sugar booger, let me go.”

“Now Glitter Bug-,”

But you’re cut off by a louder, drunker voice. “Dirk? The fuck are you doing here?”

Dirk lifted his chin, looking to his brother. His hand was twisted around, though; gripping your wrist like you held his. “Lil bro, I bring you a gift.” He reaches into his back pocket with his other hand. You get a good look of his ass when he does.

Strider the younger steps forward and then turns a delightful shade of cherry red as Dirk holds out his hand. In between his fingers is a strip of several condoms held together. “Oh my fucking--,” he snatches them out of Dirk’s hand and shoves them into his pocket. “Really did you fucking have to do that out in front of everyone?”

And for the love of all that is sweet and sexy, Dirk looks at _you_ over his shoulder, gives you this smug smirk like fuck yeah and then turns back to his little brother. “It’s about time for you to get the proper approval, plus, they’re flavored. Your boytoy should like that.”

His indignant shout is drowned out by yours as you yank Dirk back, “Excuse you, no Ampora is anyone’s fucking boytoy.”

“Piss off,” Dirk tries to jerk his hand out of your grip. But human flesh is always weaker to your troll fingers and you don’t lose control of his situation.

“Hey,” you hiss, “This isn’t a fuckin’ joke, sweet cheeks.”

“I said. Piss. Off.” He twists around and shoves at you with his other hand.

You grin, leaning in to reply but suddenly you have another hand on your shoulder. Eridan is scowling at you, his face all scrunched up. “What have I fuckin’ said about fightin’ with my party guests, Cro. If you can’t keep your fuckin’ hands in check you need to take it right the fuck outside.”

You draw your lips back in a sneer.

“Well my work here is done, so let’s fucking bail, duckling,” Dirk twists around and drags you back through the hallway. You look over your shoulder at Eridan and give him a wink. He just throws his hands up in the air at you.

The night air is fucking cold and Dirk’s hand is hot on your wrist. He leads you out to a sweet little black Pontiac Trans Am. You give a low whistle of appreciation and slide your free hand over the hood. “What a beauty.”

He squeezes your wrist and you just about drop your pants right there when he uses his _thumbprint_ to unlock the door. The door pops open and he tugs you into the back seat. They’re leather seats, beautiful stitching and oh so smooth. You close the door behind yourself and give a little, delighted sigh when you sink into the leather. “Oh baby, _baby_!”

Dirk chuckles. “You know I’m out of those condoms…”

“What a damn shame.” You’re done playing games. You lean in and kiss him hard on the lips. He laughs in your mouth and wraps his arms around your neck.

It takes you all of thirty seconds to get his shirt off of him and your mouth down his jaw to his neck. He uses those thirty seconds to climb into your lap, knees hugging your hips and wriggling like a caught fish on a hook. You like his warmth, the way his mouth moves along your earfin and his fingers pull at your shirt.

You arch up and he pulls your shirt over your head. It catches on your horn but he jerks it off and throws it over his shoulder. “Shit,” he breathes out softly, running his hands down your chest. “Shiiit.” He grinds his hips down against you. “Goddamn, do you ever leave the gym?”

“Yeah, when I need to get laid.”

He barks out in laughter, throwing back his head, “Of fucking course.” His nails scratch along your chest, but it’s a dull feeling and so human. You scratch down his back, showing him what real scratches are like. Not deep enough to do anything more than create red lines, but enough to make him arch his back and grind against you harder.

His hands move down your chest to your abs and you hear him groan against your neck as he runs his fingers over the lines of your stomach. “Mmm, that’s a good noise,” you slide your hand under the waistband of his pants. Soft human flesh, so pliable under your fingers and you dig your claws into it. He hisses and returns it with a bite against your throat.

“Baby,” he croons in your ear, “I can feel you moving.”

You grunt, but you know it’s true. Your bulge is twisting, coming out, even with it trapped in your pants. When he grinds down against you, the pressure gives you shudders up your spine. When he pulls up for a moment, you can feel that your bulge has unsheathed itself just a little more.

Your tugging on his pants is interrupted by the very sudden sound of music. The sultry R&B beats start playing and you start laughing. You don’t even have to hear the words to know exactly what song this is.

Dirk just looks down at you, arches one eyebrow and moves his hips a little. He doesn’t even have to say a word, you can translate it perfectly. _Shut up and hurry up._

But you’re still laughing, because the song is _Sexual Healing_ of all songs. Dirk reaches down and takes your hand out of his pants. For a seconds you’re afraid that you’ve fucked up and he’s so done with you, but instead he kneels up a little and does a fucking strip tease to the music. His hips move in a slow circle as his hands slide down his thighs and then back up to his crotch. He unzips and unbuttons with just a thumb. He pulls the jeans down slowly and your breath catches in your throat.

That smooth stomach and jutting hipbones lead you directly to a…ninja? There’s a face on Dirk’s boxers. A one eyed guy with spikey black hair. He’s holding up a peace sign. He looks vaguely familiar to you. Dirk manages to get his pants down his thighs, but he stops. He’s waiting.

So you point to his junk and you say the only thing that you can think of, “From Naruto, right?”

He grabs a fistful of your hair and jerks your head back. He kisses you hard, just as the song changes again. This one you don’t recognize, but you love it within six words. It says everything for you, for Dirk, so you can focus on more important things like getting him the rest of the way out of his pants.

_Shut up, and sleep with me. C’mon why don’t you sleep with me._  
 _Shut up, and sleep with me. C’mon, uh huh, and sleep with me._

The repetitive song is strangely enjoyable. Within thirty seconds you’ve got Dirk out of his pants and you’re going for his boxers. You pull off one, and can’t hide your annoyance when underneath that masked ninja face is yet another masked ninja face.

You hiss and Dirk laughs at you this time. He shucks off his boxers and settles on your lower thighs again. You spread your legs a little, forcing him to do the same so he doesn’t fall. You run exploring fingers down his chest, along the curving bone of his hip, over the soft skin connecting leg to torso and then you drag your nails along his inner thigh. He bites his lip and you see his cock twitch right in front of you.

He leans back, hands gripping your knees, and he spreads his legs wider. After a moment it clicks that he’s presenting himself to you, like a slave at auction, or a new bride on her wedding night. You don’t know which image you like more, so you settle on both.

Just as you reach out your hand to touch his dick, the song changes again. A smirk cuts across his lips as the voice whispers through the speakers. _Oh. You touch my tralala. Mm. My ding ding dong._ You can’t help but grin back at him as you run teasing fingers up along either side. You know from experience the friction isn't quite as pleasant for humans as it is for a troll, so you don’t rub to hard.

He hisses when your nails scrape his sensitive skin. His cheeks flush a dark red when you press your thumb to the slit and he grunts when you squeeze harder, just once.

When you pull your hand away, he groans out the word, “Tease,” like it’s the foulest curse in existence.

You reply with a kiss that makes his bottom lip bleed.

While you focus on the kissing, his hands move off your knees and go for your pants. You sigh into the kiss when the pressure on your bulge is lessened by him opening them. He pulls them open and then with quick fingers pulls your slick bulge out. He coaxes the rest of it from the sheath with his fingertips. You groan when he gives you one good rub, from base to tip, squeezing at the top.

He pulls back from the kiss, chest heaving, gasping for breath, as he looks down. “Ridges. Ridges on your fucking dick.”

“What did you expect, fins?”

He snorts and just swipes his hand up and down your bulge again. You groan at his quick, rough handling. You know that he’s just taking lubrication from you, but you love the heavy handedness. That purple hand vanishes behind his body.

You decide to distract him by attacking his neck, sucking and biting to leave hickeys and teeth marks up and down his pale skin. You riddle him with marks, from your hands on his thighs to your mouth on his collar bone. He uses one hand on your shoulder to keep himself steady and the other is making him make sounds that go straight to your groin.

You’re about to say something, anything, to get him to keep going, when the music shifts again. You glance up at his face. His glasses are barely on the edge of his nose. His eyes are burnished amber in the low light. Your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth, in the middle of a half imagined word.

You don’t even notice when his hips move closer, but when the beat drops on the song, he pushes himself down onto you. Your groan is half swallowed, and the other half escapes as a whine as he moves like he’s taking instructions from the music.

_ I don’t see nothing wrong _   
_ With a little bump & grind _   
_ I don’t see nothing wrong _

He moves in tempo, lifting and sinking and grinding against you in a way that stretches, squeezes and rubs your pliable bulge in all the right ways. You rock with him, rock with the song, rock with the damn car. You feel one hand on your shoulder, the other on your chest. You feel his mouth at your throat. You even feel his toes curling against the back of your knees.

As the song begins to fade, it gets replaced with one that is so much of a surprise that you actually take some thought away from feeling Dirk’s body to listen to the music. Your ears do not deceive you, though. That is definitely ABBA.

The tempo is faster, and building, and when it hits the chorus you crow in pleasure because Dirk moves perfectly in sync.

_ There’s not a soul out there _  
_No one to hear my prayer_  
 _Gimme! Gimmie! Gimmie a man after midnight!_

You don’t even care that it’s some stupid human woman singing, because Dirk’s squeezing around your bulge. He pushes down against you, filling himself up with your bulge. His ass rests directly on you, creating a skin to skin contact that flares up in your mind.

You grab his hips and when he tries to push himself up again, you hold him tight. With a grin, you concentrate on your bulge and make it coil. You see his eyes widen as you move your bulge inside of his body. You see his arms begin to shake as well.

You know that you hit his prostate the moment his body tenses up and he gasps. His lips are red and purple as they part in another gasp, and then yet another. He keeps sucking in air, like he’s forgotten how to let it out. You shift your bulge away from that spot, lessening the pressure, and he lets out a heavy sigh. “Fucking…. Ridges,” He says with his forehead against your collarbone.

Your bulge twists again and this time he outright moans. He arches. He squirms. His nails bite into your skin. Even his toes catch on the fabric of your pants.

He says something but his words are muffled by your skin. By the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears.

You push him back to get him to speak again, more clearly, but he just moans out your name as his fingers dig eight long lines down your chest. His fingers don’t even make it half way before he’s shuddering, cumming on you, his voice saying your name like no one else ever has.

You distantly hear Santana singing about a black magic woman before his body squeezing your bulge, the heat of his genetic fluids on your chest and stomach and the arch of his bitten neck as he throws back his head in orgasmic pleasure sends you crashing over the edge.

When the spots leave your vision, you’re lying back with your head to the side and there’s the prick of metal and glass from his glasses. His head is tucked under your chin. You put one hand on his back and feel deep, even breaths.

The music has faded.

“Congratulations,” says a voice from the speakers. You blink in languid surprise. Cars weren’t exactly supposed to talk. “You achieved the impossible.”

“Huh?” Your brain is not working at all. Who was talking, was it really the car?

“Just go to sleep you finned fool. He’ll explain everything when he wakes up. It’ll be better that way.”

The music comes back, but this time it’s distant ocean sounds. You put your arms around Dirk, because he’s warm and the new music makes you homesick for your old beach house. Your eyelids are heavy, slowly sinking down again and again, no matter how many times you try to keep them open.

But, eventually, you succumb into sleep.

The disembodied voice was right. It was better. 


End file.
